


Conditions

by LectorEl



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universes, Drabbles, M/M, fallen london AU, writing of dubious quality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of my Damian/Tim drabbles and short fics from tumblr. No guarantees of quality are made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AU Meme: HoneydewMelon, DamianTim, College

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a meta piece on Damian/Tim that I wrote a while back, '[All love is conditional](http://lectorel.tumblr.com/post/15104807518/all-love-is-conditional-an-analysis-of-tim-drake-and)'.

Tim hops atop the bar, balancing easily. Damian rolls his eyes and ducks under it, following Tim on the ground.

“Show off,” The twelve year old grouses, opening his copy of Frankenstein and leaning back against the railing, pen and highlighter in hand.

Tim smiles lightly. “I’m a teenager. It’s what I do. Supposedly, anyway.”

“And which class did you pick that up in?” Damian asks sardonically. Tim hops down and pears over the younger boy’s shoulder.

“And that section’s classic classist bull if I ever saw it.” Tim taps his pen against the description of Elizabeth’s foster mother. Damian highlighted it dutifully.

“It was intro to psych, by the way.” Tim wrinkled his nose. “Stupid gen-ed requirements. You’d think they’d figure out that I knew this already.”

“And then what would you be doing without it to keep you busy?” Damian asks, smirking.

“Not systematically breaking the professor’s brain for wasting my time, that’s what.” Tim hooks his arms over Damian’s shoulders. Despite being four years older than Damian, Tim was still only two inches taller than his friend, to his occasional displeasure.

“How is your classic conditioning experiment going, by the way?” Damian turns the page in his novel, and writes a rude remark regarding Victor’s incestuous tendencies in the margins.

“The professor’s twitching every time the lights flicker,” Tim says, smiling against Damian’s neck. “How’s your war on your lit class going?”

Damian snickers. “Half my class has threatened to kill me if I bring up Arabian Nights again.” They grin at each other.

“Poor bastards didn’t know what they were in for, admitting two child-geniuses in the same year,” Damian says, a distinct lack of sympathy in his voice.

“If they didn’t want us to make our own entertainment, they would have let us skip gen-eds.” Tim laughs. “Bet you we can get a quarter of the faculty to quit before we graduate.

“-tt-“ Damian clicks his tongue. “Go big or go home. Half.”

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," Tim says admiringly. “You’re on.”


	2. A DamianTim fic idea

There’s the fandom joke/fanon/theory that Tim ‘imprinted’ on Dick when they first met, and that if they hadn’t, itty Tim would have found someone else to idolize.

What if he didn’t? Tim never goes to the circus at three. He grows up, restless in his own skin, feeling like he’s missing something. Something important.

At thirteen, he manipulates things until he manages to get himself withdrawn from school to be home schooled. (The school thinks Tim’s parents arranged it. Pfft. Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.) He then confronts his parents the next time they’re home, and very calmly explains what he’s done.

"I do not wish to stay in Gotham any longer," Tim said, meeting his mother’s eyes. "I intend to travel. Whether it is with you and father, or on my own, is your choice."

His mother raised an elegantly sculpted eyebrow, expression as unreadable as Tim’s own. “And if we insisted you stay here, Timothy?”

"I have savings sufficient enough to fund six months of travel. And you know the staff has not controlled my movements since I was six. I’ll leave after you do, and make it as large a public spectacle as I can." Tim widened his eyes in false curiosity. "You’d have to admit before the world you can’t control your own child, and what _would_ that do to Drake Industries’ stock price?”

His mother laughed, and applauded. “Nicely played, Timothy. Your bags are packed, I assume?”

Tim smiled at her, letting his mask fall aside. “Of course.”

Tim spends the next five years of his life traveling, never staying in one place. With their son as mobile as they are, the Drakes cease returning to Gotham more than once a year, if that.

Tim’s driven by an all-pervading restlessness. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows he hasn’t found it yet. Over the course of his travels, he picks up various skills, legal and illegal.

At eighteen, Tim runs into ten year old Damian al Ghul, who managed to get himself in a bit over his head in Paris. (Damian could just kill his attackers, but Mother made it _very_ clear this was a test of his ability to disguise himself as an ordinary person.)

Tim’s…well, he’s not a bad person, but he’s not a good one, either. Tim is easily bored, and somewhat nihilistic. He’s the world’s most restrained thrill-seeker, essentially.

He helps the kid out, mostly out of boredom. Damian is grudgingly impressed. He can do better, of course, but still, it’s more than he would have predicted the stick-thin stranger as being capable of doing.

He ‘requests’ (read: demands) Tim accompany him for the rest of his time in Paris. Tim agrees, fully intending to leave the moment he feels the need to move on. A month and a half later, he’s still in Paris, following the world’s brattiest ten year old around, watching the kid try and fail (hilariously) at acting like a normal child.

"If a word has more than three syllables, an average ten year old probably wouldn’t use it," Tim told Damian as he was walking the boy out of the police station.

"The average ten year old is a blithering imbecile," Damian muttered, glowering at everyone in sight. Tim bit down on his cheek to keep from laughing.

"True," he said, when he got his amusement under control. "Nevertheless…"


	3. Angel, Serpant

Tim shivered in his thin robe, broken wing hanging awkwardly. It was so cold, snow far as the eye could see. He hunched his shoulders and struggled forward. The mountains weren’t too far ahead. One step. Two. Three…

Tim stumbled over a hidden branch and fell, collapsing in the snow. He lay there, on the brink of tears, until a black shadow fell across his face. He looked up into the fanged mouth of great serpent, golden eyes staring him down.

“Please,” Tim pleaded, teeth chattering. “Help me.” The serpent’s tongue flicked out, tasting the air.

“Stupid angel,” it hissed, and lowered its head. “Hold onto my ruff.”

***

“How did you break your wing, angel?” Damian asked one day. Tim paused, setting aside the shirt he was altering. He stretched the damaged wing absently, hissing when it hit half extension.

“Family disagreement,” Tim said finally. Damian let his eyes fall shut.

“Of course. Family is such a pain, isn’t it,” Damian agreed. Tim set his shirt aside and crawled into the center of Damian’s tangled coils.

“And you, serpent? How did you come to be this far north?” Tim asked, stretching out his good wing and resting on Damian’s solid bulk.

“Family disagreement,” Damian said glibly.

Tim laughed soundlessly. “Such a tragedy, family disagreements.”

***

Tim hopped across the stream, good wing spread out for balance. Damian snorted, watching him one golden eye.

“How old are you, five?” he asked, lazing on the sun warmed rock of the clearing.

Tim stepped onto the near bank and turned to give the other a glare. “I’m nearly sixty, serpent. How old are you?”

“None of your business.” Tim rolled his eyes, and knelt to set his basket traps. The salmon would swarm soon, and if he could catch some of them on their way upstream, they’d last for weeks. Damian lifted his head, watching with interest.

“Thought angels didn’t need to eat.”

“Angels in heaven don’t need to eat,” Tim corrected. “Those of us stranded on earth aren’t so lucky.”

Damian snorted. “I’ll kill you a deer next time I see one. Quit fiddling with those twigs and come here.”

“Pushy serpent,” Tim said, rising to his feet and dusting off his robes. He walked over to Damian and sat down under the great serpent’s head.

Damian promptly looped a coil around him, pulling him close. “Stubborn angel.”

***

Damian dropped the bag at Tim’s feet. It made a muffled clanging sound. Tim raised an eyebrow and opened it.

“A sword, serpent?” Tim tested the balance and smiled. “A very nice sword.”

“The village down the mountainside is very generous with their bribes to keep me from eating them. I thought you’d like it.” Damian lowered his head to lick at the red burn covering Tim’s forearm.

Tim  rest his hand on Damian’s snout and scratched. “I do. It’s been too long since I’ve had a good blade.”

“Maybe you can kill your own prey now, Angel,” Damian nudged Tim until he could get at the burns along his back.

Tim laughed and leaned against Damian. “And maybe you can oil your own scales.”

***

The winter wind howled, and Tim shivered in the chill. He stirred uneasily, yelping when it jarred his bad wing.

“Shush, angel,” Damian hissed sleepily, draping another coil of muscle over Tim’s lower back.

“Apologies, serpent,” Tim said, shifting until he could rest his head comfortably. “How long till spring?”

“Another four weeks. Go to sleep, you’re making me hungry,” Damian grumbled. Tim nodded and closed his eyes.

***

Tim looked up from the scroll he was examining when Damian slithered back into the cave, snout covered in blood.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to clean that up,” Tim said mildly. Damian huffed.

“I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself. I just chose not to.”

“Keep choosing not to and I’m not sitting next to you when I read anymore.” Neither of them commented on the ash streaks still marking Tim’s face, or the remnants of feathers stuck in the drying blood.

“Cocky, angel. I could just make you,” Damian said as he headed past Tim for the bathing pool at the back of the cave.

“But you won’t, will you serpent?” Tim closed the scroll he was reading and placed it back in the pile with the rest. Damian’s irritated hiss made him smile.

***

The midsummer sunlight gilded Damian’s scales with gold, and made the bloody mess at Tim’s feet seem even bloodier.

“One of mine?” Tim asked, prodding the winged corpse carefully. Damian sniffed the corpse, and shook his head.

“He has poison, Angel” Damian said. Tim nodded and knelt to search the corpse’s belt, flinching every time his hands touched holy flesh. He pulled free the flask of poison and wrapped it in cloth cut from the corpse’s robe. Damian hissed happily and swallowed down the corpse.

“Someday they’ll learn better than to try to take what is mine,” Damian said, wrapping himself around Tim. Tim pressed a smile into Damian’s side.

“Someday, serpent,” Tim agreed.


	4. Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fusion of the world of echo bazaar and Batman, starring Tim Drake, erstwhile spy of the Gracious Widow and intimate of devil(s).

Gotham, the fifth city! The grand dame herself, who murders the good and maddens the evil. The city of nightmares, and dreams. The bazaar squats, like the picked clean bones of ancient god, in the heart of Gotham. Hell is just across the river on the western bank, the brass embassy occupying Arkham island, the tomb colonies are to the north, the eastern shores face the broad, glimmering unterzee, and to the south is the ragged upward climb to the surface, where only fools go.

Welcome, delicious friend, to the Neath.

***

Tim ducks his head to the Gracious Widow, and she beckons him forward. He sits cross-legged on the carpet at his patron’s feet.

“Tell me, my spy, what you have discovered,” She tells him.

“The police are still watching the embassy for smuggling. Hell is growing reckless in their dealings with spifers.” Tim shudders reflexively at his own mention of the soul stealers. “I expect tensions will start reaching the ears of the street very soon.”

The Widow slid her free hand into Tim’s hair, resting her palm on Tim’s scalp. “Continue.” Tim nodded, closing his eyes briefly.

“The zailors are organizing again. They learned from last time, and they’re keeping things quiet for now.” Tim’s lips quirk into a brief smile. “Mr. Fires is in for an unpleasant shock in a few months.”

He wet his lips. “Two of the orphan-gangs have merged. The regiment and ladybone. They’re going after a churchman who wronged them. The details are sketchy.”

“The situation is being monitored,” the Widow dismisses. She tilts Tim’s chin up. Tim meets her eyes easily, Neath gray to Neath black. “As for yourself?”

“A messenger from the surface reports my father is petitioning to have me declared dead.” Tim laughs softly. “He’s almost entirely correct about that.”

“The third anniversary of your descent will be soon upon us,” The Widow observes. She slides a heavy bag into his hand. “Enjoy your revels. You will call upon me in a week.”

Tim nods, putting it away in his pocket without checking the contents. He stands and bows to the Widow, before backing out of the room.

***

Tim isn’t a part of the great game. Not properly, anyway. He’s the Gracious Widow’s spy, yes. He watches, and he reports back to his patron. But only that. No backroom dealings, no intercepting messages or falsifying information. He’s not, as one of tutors put it, a true spy.

Which, amusingly enough, is why so many players of the game like him. He’s just enough like them to understand, without the danger of betrayal. The Widow has little interest in street-level gossip. She deals with the architects of the great game, and knows more than most of the players themselves.

So slipping out the back door of the widow’s residence, Tim’s only plan for the anniversary is to meet up with Owens, Z, and Prudence, and spend the evening getting very drunk before they inevitably drag him off to Claremont’s tattoo parlor to have something suitable incriminating inked into his skin. The sight of a sulfur-eyed figure waiting for him across the street derails that.

“Damian,” Tim greets, offering his hand. The devil takes it, and kisses the back of palm in familiar mockery of the high-class manners Tim had before he came down here.

“Happy third, my ill-named friend,” Damian says. Tim laughs and stands on his tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, ignoring the scandalized looks it gains him.

“Come dance with me,” Damian demands.

Tim raises an eyebrow. “This is where I remind you my patron holds the contract on my soul.” Damian crosses his arms.

“Do you think my affection so shallow?” Damian asks, expression almost believably hurt.

“Yes.” Tim laughs, shaking his head. “Do remember how I made my way down.” Damian makes honest effort to keep his face straight.

“Oh, go ahead and laugh. I know it’s funny,” Tim waves off. Damian snickers.

“The Iron Republic has not been the same since.”

Tim smiles thinly. “Perhaps they’ve learned their lesson then.” Damian snorts.

“Unlikely.” He tugs on Tim’s hand. “Come dance with me anyway. It’ll be fun.”

“Unless you can secure me asbestos shoes and burn-proof clothing, I have to decline.” Tim had heard plenty about Hell’s traditional dances, especially the part involving red-hot iron floors.

Damian smirks. “Already done. Come on, you know you want to make the Republic’s ambassador squirm. She’ll be there.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Tim says. He flicks his eyes up to the distant roof of the Neath. “Why not. You only live a handful of times.”

Damian grins and steers them in the direction of the brass embassy.


	5. Five Years Change

"Where’s Tim?” Bruce asks, six days after he returns. Damian – fifteen, so different from the angry ten year old he’d been before Bruce’s unplanned bout of time travel – looks at him sideways, a certain Alfred-ish expression of disapproval flitting across his face.

“Didn’t Grayson tell you?” Damian raises an eyebrow, pushing away from the new computer that replaced the Croy. “It’s been nearly a week, surely this came up before now.”

Bruce is getting sadly used to Damian’s looks of judgment. The five years he was away has given the boy a pointed sense of propriety, which Bruce has tripped over multiple times since his return.

“Obviously not,” Bruce says, forcing himself to be pleasant. “What happened?”

“He dropped off the rader almost a year after your ‘death,’” Damian taps his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “There’s more, but I don’t think you deserve to know if it took you this long to notice his absence. I’m meeting Todd for patrol, don’t wait up.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dick finds him in the cave, attempting to make sense of the filing system that had been implemented in his absence.

“Another encounter with Damian?” Dick asks sympathetically, passing Bruce a mug of coffee.

“That obvious?”

Dick represses a snort. “I raised the kid for half a decade. I can recognize a Damian-induced blue screen of death at a hundred paces. What’d he say?”

“He implied I don’t care enough for Tim, and that I don’t deserve to know where he went as a result.” The fact that Damian had taken offense on Tim’s behalf was the strangest part. He’d tried to kill Tim multiple times, when had that changed?

Bruce is getting very tired of these unexplained changes.

“Oooh, he’s not pulling his punches. Tim’s a touchy subject.” Dick pats his shoulder in sympathy. “Don’t take it personally.”

“What happened, Dick?” Bruce asks.

Dick hesitates. “Damian’s the only one that knows for sure. But what I do know is that Tim bailed little D out of a situation three years back…”

***

_“Taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you, demon-child?” Drake asked coolly, stepping out the shadows and letting the unconscious ninja in his grip drop to the floor._

_“Shut up Drake,” Damian snarled automatically, before his brain caught up with the situation. Drake had been missing for over a year. What was he doing in one of the Demon Head’s bases?_

_As if reading his mind, Drake smirked, and drawled, “something the matter?”_

_“Why are you here?” Damian demanded, not stepping away from the computer bank. “Where have you been?”_

_“Here and there.” Drake shrugged, and stepped up to stand at Damian’s back. “I go where the mood takes me. What are you looking for?”_

_“Information on my creation,” Damian said. He glanced at Drake from the corner of his eye. He’d grown an inch or two, and he’d let his hair grow out, till it brushed his collar bones. He looked odd._

_“Conception, genetic alteration, or surgical enhancements?” Drake asked, leaning over Damian to use the keyboard. A few keystrokes had the entire desktop open before him, and Damian fought the urge to grind his teeth. He’d been working on that for nearly an hour._

_“All three, but surgical is most important,” Damian said grudgingly. Drake was smirking, he could just tell._

_“Here,” Drake said, some time later. He passed Damian a thin thumb drive. “I’ll cover your exit. Get out of here before your grandfather notices you’re around.”_

***

“…and I think they started corresponding after that,” Dick finishes. “Nobody but Damian knows anything more, and his email is too well encrypted for anyone to get into.”

Bruce groans. “Wonderful.”

As is turns out, Bruce only has to wait a few more weeks before learning what had become of Tim. He’s on surveliance of the mask-cams for tonight’s patrol, when Damian is ambushed, his comm damaged. Bruce is about to call for one of the others to interfere, when –

“I can’t take my eye off you for five minutes, can I?” Tim asks rhetorically, kicking one of Damian’s attackers. His green velvet cloak whips in the high winds of the rooftops, obscuring his movements enough to make predicting his movements difficult.

Damian struggles to his feet, and grins. “You need the exercise, Tim.”

“I take offense at that comment,” Tim says, bo staff snapping against the neck of a man who gets too close.

“And I’m a haddock,” Damian shouts back, plunging back into the frey. Within minutes they have the small mob subdued and tied down for police retrieval.

“Been a while, demon-brat,” Tim says, and his voice is unmistakably fond. “Anything new to report?”

“Nothing of importance,” Damian says. He hooks an arm around Tim’s shoulder. He’s a bit taller than Tim. “How long are you here for?”

“Just the night.” Tim smiles, eyes laughing. “Care to come play?”

“Always.”

There’s the sudden crackle of static, and Damian’s mask-cam cuts out. Bruce is left staring at a blank screen and wondering if he will ever understand the future he’s returned to.


End file.
